It is a knackered Premier And he falleth from his tree. "By thy short grey hair and tittering tongue, Now why fall'st thou on me?
The Polling Station doors are ope'd, And I am next to vote; The die is cast, the present past: Thy boat's no more afloat."
He grabs us with a sleazy paw, "This soap-box - look!" quoth he. "Sod off! Thou hast a greasy spoon!" Yet still made he his plea.
He snags us with his twittering words - We Voters stand in line, And listen to his curdling words Which bristle up our spine.
"I have a dream, which all my team Defy thee to condemn!" Thus spake that grey and greasy man, And sprayed us all with phlegm.
"The Sun came upon the Left!" A likely tale, we guessed, And, as one soul, pressed for the poll Whilst he relieved his chest.
He drivelled, as we hurried by, Of ancient hulks and wrecks, But proferred us, without a fuss, The blankest of his cheques.
"Here is my manifesto bold!" His voice was paper-dry, As full of ash as petty cash, And whining, by the by. …